Term Limits (59 page)

The Audi sped down the long, newly paved driveway and took the right fork about a quarter of a mile from the house. Jarod pulled the car up to the main entrance and popped the trunk. Leaving the keys in the ignition, he exited the car and walked to the rear. Jarod lifted the trunk and studied O'Rourke, who was curled up in the fetal position.

The congressman looked through squinted eyes at the strange man who had abducted him. Although he felt sluggish, the drugs had not affected his mind. The thirty-minute car ride in the darkness of the trunk had given him time to figure out, with relative certainty, what was happening. Only one person could be behind this. Garret was too big of an emotional wimp to have the balls to do something like this by himself, so it had to be Nance. Michael knew his only hope was if Liz had
made it back to the house and called Tim and Seamus. If she hadn't, Michael had no doubt that Nance would shoot him full of drugs and get him to sing, just as he and Coleman had done with Arthur. He had to buy some time until they found him.

The grandfatherly-looking man was silhouetted by a pair of lights that hung next to the entrance of the house. He pulled a medium-sized, matte black combat knife from inside his trench coat and leaned into the trunk. The knife slid in between O'Rourke's legs, and with a quick jerk the plastic ankle cuffs were cut. The man transferred the blade from his right to his left hand and helped Michael out of the trunk.

O'Rourke felt the increased effects of whatever had been pumped into him as soon as his feet hit the pavement. His legs were unsteady, and he staggered slightly to the side. Jarod hung on to him by the arm and prevented him from toppling to the ground. The two of them proceeded toward the front door, and after about five steps Michael regained enough of his balance that he could walk without assistance.

When they reached the house, the door opened from the inside, revealing a grinning Mike Nance. “Good evening, gentlemen.” Nance was wearing a pair of dark wool slacks, a white button-down, and a blue cardigan.

O'Rourke stared at the smug grin on Nance's face and fought back the urge to reach out and smash in his face. He took a step forward, but the stranger holding on to his arm prevented him from taking another. O'Rourke froze as Jarod dug two fingers
into the pressure point under his right arm. Michael's whole right side buckled under the penetrating pain, and he slouched in a convulsive jerk.

“Now, now, Congressman, behave yourself.” Nance waved his finger at O'Rourke as if Michael were a little schoolboy. “You don't want to upset my friend.” Nance nodded for the two men to follow and started down the hallway. Jarod loosened his grip slightly and prodded Michael forward. The three men went down the hall and entered the large game room.

O'Rourke looked to his right and saw Stu Garret standing behind the bar with a drink in his hand. O'Rourke glared at the president's chief of staff, and Garret averted his eyes. Nance pointed toward Michael's mouth and said, “Jarod, you can take off the tape.” The shorter man reached up and yanked the gray duct tape off O'Rourke's mouth. Michael ignored the slight sting and kept his eyes fixed on Garret.

Nance spoke from a discreetly safe distance. “Congressman, we have some unfinished business from this morning.”

O'Rourke stared at Nance in disgust and said, “I finished my business with you when I broke your nose.”

Nance turned and looked at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He reached up and gently touched his swollen nose. “Yes, I suppose I owe you for that, don't I?” Turning back to face O'Rourke, Nance said flatly, “Jarod, would you please break Congressman O'Rourke's nose for me?”

Michael had no time to react. The man standing
next to him grabbed his handcuffed wrists and forced them down. Jarod's free hand raised up like a tomahawk and came crashing down in a karate chop across the bridge of Michael's nose. There was a loud pop as O'Rourke's nose moved a quarter of an inch to the left. Michael stumbled back, his head reeling. O'Rourke had had his nose broken twice before while playing hockey in college, but he never remembered it hurting this bad. He gritted his teeth in an attempt to try to fight back the pain as blood streamed out of his nostrils and over his upper lip.

Nance walked back over from the bar and proclaimed, “I don't like resorting to violence, Mr. O'Rourke, but I do believe in an eye for an eye. Your behavior this morning was very uncivilized.”

“And I suppose killing Erik Olson was civilized. Spare me your bullshit.” Michael wiped some blood on the sleeve of his gray sweatshirt.

Nance nodded to Jarod, and before Michael could react, a fist slammed into his lower back, sending him crashing to the floor. Grimacing from the agonizing pain in his right kidney, O'Rourke pushed himself up onto his knees and looked at Nance's shoes. Michael had never been one to take things lying down, and he reasoned the longer he kept them from asking some real questions, the better his chances were. Slowly, he brought his head up. His eyes rested on Nance's white shirt. O'Rourke felt his mouth filling with blood, and as he got to his feet, he spit it at Nance. A large glob of blood and saliva splattered Nance's face and white shirt.

O'Rourke had less than a second to enjoy his
small victory. He was instantly knocked to his knees by another punch to the kidney. Nance, infuriated by the indignity of being spat on, stepped forward and slapped Michael across the face.

The slap barely moved Michael's head. O'Rourke paused to gain his breath and then looked up at Nance. Through clenched teeth, he forced a smile to his lips and asked, “Who taught you how to hit like that, your mom?”

Nance's complexion turned a shade darker and his hands started to tremble as he fought to control his anger. In a half yell, he barked, “Jarod, teach this man some respect!”

O'Rourke knew more pain was on the way so he rolled from his knees to the floor and away from his assailant. When he completed the turn and stopped by the back of a couch five feet away, he looked up and saw Jarod approaching with his stun gun extended. Michael saw something pop from the end, and then every inch of his body spasmed as electricity shot through his veins. While he squirmed on the floor, he felt himself losing consciousness. His vision sparkled and then went dark. The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was the faint ringing of a phone.

Stansfield paced behind his desk while Kennedy relayed possible action scenarios one after another. This was one of Irene's strong suits. She was a master at taking problems, plugging in different variables, and predicting probable outcomes.

The Operations Center in the basement was humming like the bridge of an aircraft carrier
headed into battle. Charlie Dobbs looked down at the floor from his crow's nest and watched his people move with speed and precision. He was wearing a headset and pressed the speed dial for Stansfield's office. The director answered and Dobbs said, “The choppers are warmed up and the tactical teams are ready to roll. We also have the real-time thermal imaging on-line.”

“What do you see?”

Dobbs looked at the high-resolution, fifty-inch screen that was mounted in the wall behind his desk. “The only thing to report is the arrival of a car. Otherwise everything looks pretty quiet.”

“What kind of car?” asked Stansfield.

“It's hard to tell with the thermal imaging, but it looks to be a sedan of some type. A couple of my imaging analysts are running computer enhancements on the stuff right now. They should be able to tell us more in about ten minutes. The car arrived just after we came on-line. One person got out. They retrieved something from the trunk and went into the house.”

Stansfield's eyelids tightened. “Did you say the trunk?”

“Yeah.”

“What did they get from the trunk?”

“I don't know.”

“How big was it?”

Dobbs sighed apologetically. “Thomas, we can't tell with the nighttime thermal imaging on the KH-11. If it was daytime, I'd know more, or if it was one of the new KH-12s, we'd have no problem, but the thermal imaging has a lower resolution.”

“Get your boys on it right away! Tell them to forget about the make of the car for now. I want to know how big the object was that was taken from the trunk, and let me know if anybody else arrives or leaves the ranch. I'm going with the tactical teams. Give the pilots the location of Nance's place and tell the men to load up. I'm on my way down.” Stansfield hung up and looked at Kennedy. “I want you to stay here and coordinate. If Scarlatti calls, give her the number for my mobile phone and have her call me directly.”

“Are you going out to Nance's?”

“Yes. I'm going to handle this thing personally.” Stansfield exited his office and told his bodyguard to grab the mobile phone and follow him. Stansfield slid his access card into the slot for the executive elevator and watched as his bodyguard strapped a black nylon pack around his waist that contained the director's secure mobile phone.

There was a knock on the door and all three men turned their attention from the body on the floor to the entrance of the room. The voice of Nance's assistant called out from behind the oak door. “Sir, the president is on the line and would like to speak to you.”

Nance scowled at the door. “Tell him I'm not available and that I'll call him back.”

The assistant cleared his throat. “He was rather insistent that he speak with you immediately.… In fact he seemed a bit irate.”

Nance pointed at O'Rourke, who was still passed out on the floor. “Jarod, keep him quiet. I'll be right
back.” As Nance started for the door, Garret followed. Nance stopped abruptly. “Wait here, Stu. I can handle this on my own.” Nance left the room and went to his private study. He pushed the blinking light on the phone and said, “I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Jim. What is it that you wanted?”

The president screamed into the phone, “What in the hell are you up to now?”

“Jim, I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Don't pull this crap with me, Mike. Where in the hell is Congressman O'Rourke?”

“Why would I know where Congressman O'Rourke is?”

“Someone has taken him, and it's no shock that you're at the top of the list for potential kidnappers.”

“Who told you he was taken?”

“Stansfield!”

Nance was quiet for a moment. “As I have maintained since this morning, I think Thomas Stansfield is behind this entire affair. I have—”

“Shut up, Mike!” yelled the president. “I can't believe you've gotten me into this mess. I saw the way Stu fell apart when he heard that tape. You're not going to get away with blaming this thing on anybody but yourself. You and your sadistic friend Arthur were behind this whole thing, and I'm not going to get dragged down with you. A reporter called Stansfield and told him if O'Rourke isn't turned over in an hour, they're going to release the tape of Arthur. Now wake up before it's too late, and tell me where in the hell Congressman O'Rourke is.”

“I have no idea.”

“Bullshit… you're a goddamned professional liar, Mike. Hand him over before you ruin all of us.”

“All of us is right, Jim.” Nance's words were laced with blatant disrespect. “If that tape is released, all of us are going down, and that includes you. We're all in this together, and we're going to do it my way. You stall Stansfield. If they want the good congressman back so bad, he must know something. When I'm done with him, I'll turn him over.” Nance slammed the phone down and left for the other end of the house.

DIRECTOR STANSFIELD AND HIS BODYGUARD walked out the rear exit of the main building at Langley and toward the waiting helicopters. The chopper to the right was a modified Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk with state-of-the-art noise-suppression equipment mounted over its powerful engines. The dark bird could fly at speeds up to eighty miles an hour and be no louder than a car. The Black Hawk was loaded with eight fully armed SOGs, members of the CIA's Special Operations Group. They were
dressed in black Nomex jumpsuits and black tactical assault vests. The majority of the men were former Recon Marines and Army Airborne Rangers. Each man also wore a dull black Delta Force helmet and body armor made of spectra, a bulletproof composite. The helmets weighed only three pounds and were capable of stopping up to a .357 magnum round at close distance. Mounted on top of the helmets were pop-down night-vision goggles. All eight men carried silenced 9x19mm Heckler & Koch MP-5 machine guns. Two of the eight also carried Remington short-barreled shotguns with special Shok-Lok rounds for blasting through hinges and door locks. If the shotguns weren't enough, they also carried shaped plastic explosives for blasting through reinforced doors. One man also carried a Remington custom sniper rifle.

The chopper that Stansfield approached was blue and silver with the word MEDEVAC painted in white letters over both sliding doors. This helicopter contained the eight members of the second tactical team. They were armed identically to the team in the Black Hawk minus the black Nomex jumpsuits and Delta Force helmets. This group was dressed in plainclothes. Four of them wore suits and trench coats, two were in jeans and leather jackets, and the seventh and eighth were a man and woman set up to look like a husband and wife. All eight carried their weapons concealed in large Velcro pockets on the inside of their jackets.

The director climbed into the front seat next to the pilot, and his bodyguard got in back with the troops. Stansfield nodded to the pilot, and the
helicopter lifted off the ground and headed east with the dark Black Hawk close behind. The men and one woman in the back of the medevac chopper shot each other sideways looks. It wasn't often that the director came along for something like this.

Stansfield looked to his right as the two helicopters raced over the northern part of downtown at close to 150 mph. His bodyguard tapped him on the shoulder and handed his boss the phone. “It's the president.”